Young Love
by 3m83r
Summary: AmeIta FLUFF. Written for Valentine's Day.


_**Hello, and Happy Valentine's Day! Today I've brought you a story with AmeIta! It seems I love the strangest pairings, because I could only find 2 stories with this pairing.**_

 ** _If a word or phrase is underlined, you can find it and what it references in the end notes of the story!_**

 _ **Please enjoy, and I'd appreciate it if you would rate and review!**_ ** _( *´ω`_ _*)_**

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 ** _'Today was... quite a strange day.'_**

Italy Veneziano, the seemingly happy-go-lucky personification of the Italian Republic, was currently cooking his all-time favorite dish, pasta. He was humming happily to himself, stirring the long, thin strings around and around the boiling pot once more. "Ve~ The pasta looks great so far~!" he murmured, satisfied. Suddenly, a knock resounded at his door, which wasn't too far from his place in the kitchen. 'Hmm? I didn't think I was expecting anyone today,' he thought, confused. 'Oh well, it wouldn't hurt to take a quick look. And I'll remember what Germany said in case of an emergency~!' He skipped towards the tall, looming door, and stole a glance at the peephole lodged in it. What he saw was, quite unexpected.

 _'Huh? What's **he** doing here...?'_

He was dumbfounded. Out of all the people he knew, he'd never thought that **he** would ever want anything to do with him. Him! Italy Veneziano, the weak North Italy! Nevertheless, he opened the door to greet the man, unsure of whether to be ecstatic or neutral, but ended up choosing what seemed best for the future.

"Salve, America!"

The tall, blond man seemingly grinned from ear to ear, wearing casual clothes with an American touch to them: a brown hoodie, red headphones wrapped around his neck, blue jeans, and black and white tennis shoes. It seemed somewhat flashier than his own clothes: an over-sized white t-shirt, brown pants, and plain black shoes. "Hey, Italy! How's it going?" he beamed. "Great! How about you?" Italy answered, his happiness slowly rising towards the sky. "Same, dude. You don't mind me stepping in, right?" "No, no, not at all! Come in! I'll be with you in a minute!" He welcomed the American in, hurrying towards the kitchen to make sure that the pasta hadn't burnt. Luckily, it hadn't, which caused him to breathe a sigh of relief.

He quickly grabbed a plate from one of his cabinets, and proceeded to drain the pot of its water. Once he was done, he scooped the bundle of noodles onto his plate using a fork he picked up from the sink. The clean side of it, to be specific. The pasta looked perfect enough to be offered to the holy flying spaghetti monster, but keeping his hunger at bay would always come first.

Though, it seemed like there was something missing. Oh, what was it, what was it...? Oh! Italy bounced over to his pantry, and rummaged around the inside, searching intently. 'Ah, here it is!' He picked out a jar of his favorite tomato sauce, and proceeded to twist it open. He struggled quite a bit, as this was a task he'd request his fratello, or Germany, or even Japan, to complete, when they came over, or if he had a sauce jar with him for any real reason.

"Nngh...!" he groaned, tears starting to form in the corners of his eyes. Finally, the lid came off, almost pulling Italy along with it. Fortunately, he was able to catch himself before colliding with the floor, coming back up in an upright position. Out came another sigh of relief. He didn't seem to have spilled any sauce either, so that was a bonus. He then proceeded to pour the sauce over the pasta, letting it drip down and fill the empty space. 'E... perfetto!' He lifted the jar up, even more satisfied than before.

Then, he remembered he had America over for... something. 'I'll eat later,' he resolved, as he walked to the living room. He scanned the living room, making by sure everything was where it was before. One couch, a coffee table, but no- A pair of arms pulled him back, surprising him.

"A-America? What are you doing?" The American's arms were wrapped tightly around his waist, though not tightly enough to crush him. "You feel nice..." he mumbled, nuzzling his face into the older nation's back. "America! Per favore fermati!" he whimpered, attempting to squirm his way out of the stone-tight grip in vain. "Hey, Italy?" America mumbled, sending vibrations through the Italian's back. "...Yes, America?" he responded. "Has anyone ever told you they loved you?" Italy lit up at this question, a grin spreading across his face. "Sí! Germany told me he loved me many, many times!"

"But did he really mean it?'

Italy's heart seemed to freeze at this question, if that was even humanely possible. "O-of course! Germany and I are friends, why wouldn't he mean it?" he countered, truly sure that his and Germany's friendship was real. "...You're lucky..." "What do you mean, America?" Italy asked, confused, "Wasn't there someone who loved you too?" "...Yeah, I did. But, not anymore..." America muttered. "...Really?"

"At least, I don't think he does..." he added. Something clicked in Italy's head. "Of course he still loves you! Even though it doesn't seem like it, he really loves you as a little brother!" he protested, trying to break America out of his... sudden depression. "It, it's kind of like fratello! He's really stubborn, but I know that he loves me as a brother!" After his desperate pleas, the room grew quiet, like the sound of nighttime.

"...Heh, I never realized how similar those two were. Iggy and... Romano, huh...?" America drifted off, his grip on Italy loosening. Italy could hear his footsteps drifting away, and turned around to face America. America was just in front of the kitchen entrance, the plate of pasta sitting on the table just behind it. His mouth was now drawn into a faint smile. He chuckled a little, and stopped.

"You know, we're kinda alike, you know? We have stubborn older brothers, we're taller than them, you get me, right?" America pointed out, his mouth now forming a full-out grin. "Sí, I never really took the time to notice!" Italy replied. He could feel himself smiling as well, his happiness rising even more. He walked over to America, and wrapped his small arms around the taller nation's body.

"Wow, you really are bigger than me! I can see why England was so surprised, hehe~!" he laughed, raising his cheery honey-brown eyes to meet the American's surprised sky-blue ones. "You know, America, you're welcome to stay here for the night, if you have nothing else to do. It's been pretty lonely the past few days, and with fratello staying over at Spagna's, and Germany and Japan being really busy, I felt like I need some company here, too..." The two young nations stayed there for a while, seemingly not wanting to break apart, the bright orbs of their eyes staring at each other with a mystical sort of awe.

"...Y-yeah. I'll totally stay the night, bro." The American moved his arms upwards, meeting with the Italian's slender back. America didn't know what it was,, and neither did Italy, but something had seemed to grow stronger between the two as a whole, seemingly connecting them as one. That was when Italy kissed him. Feliciano Vargas had kissed Alfred F. Jones, the United States of America.

They stayed like this for quite some time; it was a very peaceful time, if you may. And then they pulled away, gasping for air, yet smiling and breathlessly laughing. Two young nations, who fell in love so easily, who couldn't read the atmosphere, now only wanted nothing more than happiness. They shared one more passionate embrace, until the smaller brunette piped up in the taller blonde's arms. "Oh! I should be readying your bed now! I'll be down whenever, so make yourself at home first. If you need me, you know where I'll be, America~!" Italy realized, breaking out of America's arms to walk to the stairs. He was pulled back though, as he realized that America was tightly gripping his hand.

"America...?" Silence passed between the two, until America broke the silence. "Do you... really love me?" he inquired, worried of the answer he may get. "Of course I do, America. If I didn't, _that_ wouldn't have happened, right~?" Italy answered, placing his free hand over America's lone one. "...Heh, right again." America chuckled. Italy gave his hand a tight squeeze before he broke away, mind littered with responsibilities, while America just stood there, thinking about... food.

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 _ _ **Once again, Happy Valentine's Day! Or, Buon San Valentino, if you prefer! I hope you enjoyed the story! Please write a review, and if you spot any errors in the story, please write them down!**__

 ** **Footnotes:****

 ** _1\. Salve = Hello (You would use this for people you're not very familiar with)_**

 ** _2\. This is... a real deity. The worshiping of this god is referred to as Pastafarianism._**

 ** _3\. Fratello = Brother_**

 ** _4\. E... perfetto! = And... perfect!_**

 ** _5\. Per favore fermati! = Please stop!_**

 ** _6\. Spagna = Spain_**

 ** _(Sí, of course, is yes.)_**


End file.
